


never hurt like this before

by WilderWoods



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of a songfic, Lots of alcohol, Lots of tears, Mentions of miscarriage, Pet Names, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, god i'm soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 16:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilderWoods/pseuds/WilderWoods
Summary: Steve and you have a big fight, and there's lots of alcohol and tears involved. And make-up sex, cause who doesn't love that?Content warning: Mentions of a miscarriage





	never hurt like this before

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a long ass time since I've written ANYTHING, much less fanfiction, but the mood struck me today as I was listening to my favorite song at the moment -- Whiskey Glasses by Morgan Wallen. Kind of a dumb country song, but also a bop and the main inspiration for this fic. I hope you enjoy it. I have plans for more fics that I'll be posting soon, so keep an eye out if you'd like!
> 
> A note about Steve getting drunk: I've always thought that the trope of Steve not being able to get drunk is really dumb. Yes, he's a super soldier with increased metabolism, but even the fastest metabolisms take time to break things down. And, because Steve is so big, he needs more liquor to get him buzzed. So while he's unable to get completely shitfaced, he definitely can feel the effects of alcohol given he drinks enough in a short enough period of time. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated because they really encourage me to write more, but obviously, they are in no way a requirement for enjoying my writing!

_Pour me, pour me another drink_

Steve tips the glass to his mouth, drinking down the last of his Manhattan. He swirls the dregs of whiskey around the bottom of the glass, watching as the cherry rolls around. He pinches his fingers together and pops it in his mouth, the sweet, artificial flavor coating his tongue. He taps his fingers on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. She turns around.

“Another of the same?” she asks.

He thinks for a moment. “Can I just get a shot of Patron?”

“Lime with that?” she asks.

“No.”

He takes the shot straight, no lime, no salt, no chaser. He barely tastes the tequila as it slides down his throat. “Another,” he says.

He’s a mess. He thinks about you as he downs more tequila, another Manhattan, a gin and tonic (“With Hendrick’s,” he specifies, because if he’s going to get shitfaced he’s going to do it right). He thinks about where you left him, how you’d thrown the ring in his face, and how he’d just walked out of your apartment without saying anything.

“Let me guess. Your girl?” the bartender asks. Steve nods miserably. The bartender, whose name Steve can’t remember (Ellie? Elizabeth? Ella? Something like that) clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Sucks,” she say, sliding another drink across the bar to Steve.

He’s feeling a buzz from the liquor finally, one that might be pleasant under other circumstances. He thinks about the words the bartender spoke: “Your girl.” He rubs his hands together as he considers that after what happened between you two, you might not be his anymore. The thought drives him to down the rest of his drink, and they keep coming.

Several drinks and countless dollars worth of liquor later, Steve finally gets to a state he can call drunk. His vision is a little hazy, his head spins a little bit, and with a little bit of focus he’s able to forget why he wanted to feel like this in the first place.

You’re drunk too, having polished off a bottle of your favorite Cabernet. You’re wearing one of his shirts and a pair of panties, buried in a mound of blankets on the couch, solo cup of wine in hand and an empty bottle next to you on the floor. The apartment is dark, and quiet. Too quiet. Steve should be here, you think. Your laugh should be filling the room as he tickles you. Music flowing through the speakers, because there’s always music. But it’s silent, except for the ticking of the clock on the wall and of your own pounding heartbeat in your ears. Your mouth is dry and your wine-drunk head spins. Inebriated as you are, you can’t forget what happened. It’s all you can think about. It’s all you’ve been able to think about since it happened. And, instead of feeling numb, you’re feeling the pain more sharply than ever.

Four weeks ago, you found out you were pregnant with Steve’s baby. You were overjoyed, and when you told him, he was equally as thrilled, if not more. But, two weeks ago, your doctor discovered there was no more heartbeat. No more baby. You cried for days, but Steve never shed a single tear-- he just held you. And then, three days ago, he started leaving early in the morning. He would leave for a run before the sun rose, and wouldn’t return until long after you had given up on seeing him that day and gone to bed. You barely saw him for three days. So, on day four, you made dinner -- something you didn’t often do, as Steve was far more culinarily talented -- and waited. And waited longer. It was past midnight when he finally came in the door. You burst into tears, screaming and yelling and not letting him get a word in edgewise. “You’re never home,” you’d said, tears choking you. “Why don’t I ever see you? I need you right now! I’ve always needed you!” It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t right, but it was how you felt. You had just lost your baby, and grieving deeply, and Steve couldn’t even be bothered to hold you while you cried anymore.

Steve had tried to explain himself, tears dripping off his sculpted jaw. He was grieving, too, and didn’t want to worry you. Didn’t want his grief to mess up yours. Wanted to do the right thing. Wanted to get over this loss, so he could help you cope. He knew it wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what else to do. But you, in your sleepy, emotional, angry state, refused to listen to him. You yanked off your engagement ring, threw it as hard as you could at him, where it hit him in the forehead. In any other scenario, you’d be laughing at the shocked look on his face. “You should leave,” you had said coldly. And, being Steve, he listened. He picked up your ring from where it had landed on the floor, tucked it into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and walked back out of the door.

You had collapsed into the couch after that, a fresh wave of sobs wracking you as you considered all you had just thrown away. No baby, and now no fiancé, either. You opened a bottle of wine and grabbed a solo cup, deciding you couldn’t even handle a proper glass at the moment. You swaddled yourself in blankets and drank until the clock read 3 a.m.

The bartender approaches Steve, now on his umpteenth drink of the night. “Last call,” she murmurs to him. She clears away his glass and he pulls out his wallet, dropping two hundreds on the counter. The barkeep nods at him, and he stumbles out of the building. He’s drunk, and he knows he shouldn’t try to call you, not at this hour. After you had told him to leave, and he had listened, he walked to the bar where you two had met nearly two years earlier, and decided to drink himself into a stupor.

Even through whiskey glasses, the lights of New York at night are beautiful, and for a moment Steve forgot about his plight. As he walks, he remembers everything. The liquor didn’t take the pain away for very long. He misses you, and he knows he needs to fix things. The only problem was he doesn’t know how. What if you kick him out again? Did you really not want to be with him anymore?

These questions race through his rapidly-sobering mind as he walks the streets of New York City in the early hours of the morning, wandering until the sun is nearly rising and he feels as if the many drinks he had consumed never touched his lips.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, having finished the bottle of wine all by your lonesome self, as you cried over everything you felt you had lost. You’re roused from sleep, however, by the sound of a key in the door. You glance at the clock. Nearing 6, then. The door swings open, then shuts quietly. You hear the clinking of keys as Steve places them in the dish on the table next to the door, then the quiet taps as he takes off his shoes. Though you can’t see him, you knows he is placing them just under the table, so they’re out of the way. Then, the scratching of a zipper and the soft rustling of him hanging up his jacket.

You feign sleep as you hear him come into the living room, socked feet quiet on the carpet. You feel his warmth as he kneels next to you, runs a hand through your hair, and drops a kiss on your forehead.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. “I know you’re probably still mad at me, and that’s allowed, but just know I love you, okay?” He kisses your cheek and leans against the couch. You can’t pretend anymore. The tears that have been welling in your eyes since he walked in the door finally spill over, and a choked sob escapes your mouth before you can stop it. And then the floodgates truly open, and though you didn’t think you had tears left to cry, more spill out as sobs tear out of you. Steve whispers to you something about holding you, and all you can do it nod as the pain courses through your blood. He holds you close, rubbing your back and hushing you and then you feel him crying too, his large frame drumming underneath you and his tears slipping silently into your hair.

Some time passes. You don’t know how much. But, eventually you are cried out, and your breathing evens, and Steve is still holding you, large hands warm on your back and soothing your wounds. Neither of you says anything yet, still lost in the moment and unsure of what to say.

It’s Steve who finally breaks the silence. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry,” he begins, voice cracking again. He’s quiet again for a bit, and when he speaks again, you can hear him fighting to keep the tears at bay. “I shouldn’t have left you like that. I know you’re hurting so much, and I am too. But I wanted to be there for you, and I knew I had to let myself grieve if I was going to do that.”

You clutch onto him tightly.  “Why couldn’t we grieve together?”

Steve sighs. “We could have, but I thought, hey, this is probably affecting you even more. I didn’t want to intrude on your grief.”

“You wouldn’t have been intruding, Steve. It was…” You trail off, and take a deep breath. “It was your baby too.” Fresh tears prick at the backs of your eyes and you scrub a hand over them.

Steve runs a hand through your hair. “I know,” he says, and that’s all. He holds you for a while longer, and the sun is shining fully through the gaps in the blinds now. He kisses you gently on the top of your head, and then your forehead, and then your cheeks. He finishes by placing a gentle kiss on your lips, which you return. You move to intensify the kiss, try to slip him some tongue, but he pulls away. “Baby, it’s okay, we don’t have to do anything--”

You cut him off. “No, I want this,” you say. “Want you. Want to feel you.”

“Okay,” he says, gently sliding you off your position in his lap. “One second.” He pads back into the hallway. You hear a bit of rustling, and he comes back. “Thought you might want this back,” he says, holding out his hand. Your engagement ring sparkles in the morning sun filling the room. Your eyes tear up for what feels like the millionth time.

“Steve, I’m--”

“Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. We’re okay.” He takes your hand in his and slides the ring down your finger, kissing your knuckles once it’s in place. “Now, to the bedroom?” he asks. You nod, and he takes your hand and helps you off the couch. Together, you take the few steps to your shared bedroom. Steve kisses you again, placing his hands on your waist and pulling you close to him. “Get on the bed, sweetheart.” You obey, climbing up onto the soft mattress and laying down. Steve follows you, framing your hips with his strong legs, and peels off his own shirt. He helps you out of yours next, leaving you just in a pair of black panties. “Mm, my favorite,” he says, sneaking a finger into the waistband and snapping the elastic against your skin.

He starts by kissing your neck, nipping at your skin occasionally, soothing the spots with his tongue as you whine. He trails kisses down your chest, all over your breasts, kissing and sucking on your nipples before continuing down your abdomen to the waistband of your panties. Instead of giving you what you want, he kissed back up your belly, back to your nipples, now peaked with arousal, back up your neck and your jaw and that spot just underneath your left ear until he finally kisses his way back to your mouth, kissing you passionately, making you moan and rub your thighs together. It’s been weeks since you’ve had him like this, days before you found out you had lost the baby. It’s intoxicating to feel like this again, to feel so close to him.

“What do you need, my love?” he asks, tracing your hard nipples with the tip of one finger, relentlessly teasing you.  You whine at him.

“You know what I need,” you manage to get out.

 

He swipes his tongue over each of your nipples. “I do,” he says, blowing cool air over your already sensitive nubs. “But I want to hear you say it.”

Desperate for relief, you relent. “I want your mouth.”

“Where?”

You flush as you give your answer. “I want your mouth on my cunt.”

“Good girl,” he says. This time, he pulls off your panties, spreads your legs open, and then his tongue is sweeping over your folds, licking up the wetness of your arousal and flicking your clit. You let out a low moan, which only encourages him, and he boldly enters you with two fingers. The stretch causes you to whine, and he chuckles against your cunt. “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers as he continues to suckle on your clit, pressing his fingers into all the right places inside you and you flutter around his fingers.

“Getting close, baby girl?” he asks. You whine and nod, your fingers snaking their way into his already messy hair, pulling on it as he pushes hard on your G-spot, mouth closed around your clit, and takes you over the edge of your orgasm.

It rips through you, having been some time since you experienced this kind of pleasure, and you pull his hair and groan and thrash. He takes you through it, only stopping his attentions when you’re a quivering mess and nearly in tears from how overwhelmed you feel.

He wipes his fingers on the sheets and his mouth on the back of his hand, and then he’s kissing you again and you can taste yourself on his lips, and _God,_  if that isn’t sexy.

“You ready for me?” he murmurs against your lips. You whisper a yes back to him, and suddenly his pants are gone and he’s sliding his hard cock into your warm, waiting cunt. You moan and clench around him involuntarily as he rhythmically thrusts into you, and you think nothing has in all of human history ever felt as good as his cock does inside you.

The moment ends too quickly, as Steve kisses your neck up and down, whispering in your ear, “Baby girl, I’m close.” His fingers find your clit and he rubs in soft circles, swallowing your moans with a well-timed kiss, and he groans into your mouth as you both dance on the edge of an imaginary cliff, tumbling over together in a pulse of moans and kisses and Steve’s cum flooding your already-soaked cunt.

He stays seated inside you for awhile after that, kissing your cheeks and lips and eyes and whispering to you how much he loves you, how sorry he is, how he’s never leaving you again.

So yes, it’s true that you’ve never hurt like this before. But you’ve also never felt as light as you do with his arms around you, with him inside you, his smell and feel enveloping you in a way you can only describe as embracing your very soul.

He pulls out of you finally, softened cock sliding out of you, and goes off to the bathroom. He returns with a damp washcloth, wiping softly between your legs, kissing your knee as you sigh at the cool cloth on your sore, hot cunt. He throws the washcloth into the hamper and comes back to bed, sliding behind you, holding you close to him. You close your eyes, and just then, your 7:45 alarm goes off. You laugh at it, and Steve turns it off as he holds you close to him, and drift off to sleep together.

 


End file.
